Mermaids Cry Too
by purebristles
Summary: [GG Ensemble] Rory picked out St. Goar on a map, and insisted that we hop on a bus from Munich that would bring us there. And then I had my name's story told to me for the very first time. [Complete.]
1. Who is she? Lorelei of the Sea

**Standard Disclaimer: **These characters belong to the WB & AS-P.  
**Dedication: **This is for **jeepgirl259**. Est-ce que vous êtes aussi une 1980 bébé? (Forgive me, my french sucks like an octopus' tentacles)  
**Spoilers/Timeline: **No spoilers, set in Season 5, after "So... good talk". Not episode-centric, just set after they break and make up.  
**A/N: **Do read and review. This was re-submitted after **eighty9octane** alerted me to the no-lyrics policy of this site. Personally, I think the warning goes out to all who just copy-and-paste an entire song with two lines of dialogue and a mise-en-scene explanation, like "they went dancing and this song went on", but well... Since this was a fic that was going to be based around the lyrics of the song, I don't see how I can continue in a coherent manner without violating copyright. I've always held that ten percent of the work can be used without permission (so ten percent per chapter was alright in my book), but I suppose it's better to be above-board in ambiguous cases. Apologies to all; this was going to be my first serious multi-partner. (Who said that copyright isn't killing creativity?)

**Mermaids Cry Too  
Chapter 1: This is how she came to be, Lorelei of the sea**

There was a tale that was heard, about two years ago, by a pair of lovely young ladies. These ladies had gone on a journey - an almost-forfeited, long-awaited pilgrimage for one, and an adventure that was anticipated for 16 years for the other - over mountains and over streams, somewhere over the rainbow, over the sea. On a plane. With tickets. Which cost an arm and a leg, and perhaps, a kidney or two.

It was over the oceans they went, and a grand time they had of it too - with nothing but their clothes in their backpacks and a good pair of walking shoes. Arriving in Heathrow, London, and mucking about the British Museum, the Tate Modern, Big Ben, the Millennium Dome, then crossing the channel, taking pictures of the white cliffs of Dover, to the Champs Elyseés in Paris, "that peeing boy statue" in Belgium, the ostentatious shops in Milan, the adorable lace houses and glass-blowers in Venice, the ring road in Vienna (oh, the culture! Mozart! Goethe!), taking a day to travel all the way to Mondsee ("because it was where Maria and the Captain got married in _The Sound of Music_!")... they had the time of their lives. Both living out one of their many, many dreams, and both half-disbelieving that they were actually **there**, in **Europe**. Finally.

They saw many things, and did even more, but the one place which laid claim to their strongest memory belonged to a little town in Germany, called St. Goar. It was there that both stood still, in silence, for a whole five minutes, just taking it... her... in.

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Okay, I'm getting a real good neck workout just looking at it from all directions, but it still looks just like a rock to me."

"But a really pretty rock."

"Of course, honey, a real pretty one. She is, after all, us."

"Please, mom. Unless you're a thousand years old, we're her."

"Yeah, but we evolved. Just check out how old her name is spelled. With an "E-Y" or an "E-I". I like ours better."

"Yeah, I like ours better. Maybe if you squint a little...ooh, boat's here."

That was the first time I had heard the story behind my name. Rory had googled it back when there was a name etymology project back in Chilton, but she'd never received the report back (just the grade, which was an A, of course), and I had forgotten all about it. Until Rory picked out St Goar on a map, and insisted that we hop on a bus from Munich that would bring us there.

And then I had my name's story told to me for the very first time.

_"... The story of the Lorelei is one of passion and drama. She was a beautiful maiden who lived a long time ago. Flowing hair, beautiful smile, with lips as red as cherries, a voice that sounded like an angel's and eyes that a man could get lost in... she was the prettiest child, who had grown up to be a most enchanting young woman. And of course, with any tale such as this, there has to be a young, handsome man too - he fell in love with her, and the young lovers vowed to be true to each other forever._

_But of course, with any tale such as this, it was not to be, for in spite of all his virtues, this young man had a roving eye, and one night, returning home a day early after visiting her mother, Lorelei found her young man in the arms of another woman. Hurt beyond pain, she ran out of the house trying to erase the image of her lover's betrayal which seemed scorched in her mind forever. Perhaps she slipped, perhaps she jumped - whatever the case, she fell into the Rhine River, and her body was never recovered._

_Some time after her death, there was a tragic shipwreck along the banks of the Rhine. The sole surviving sailor told the tale of a mysterious, mournful song being sung by a beautiful voice, which made his heart yearn for home. He had closed his eyes and lifted his arms, lost in the melody, and was suddenly thrown free of the ship into the icy water._

_"It was a siren song," he said wistfully. "Beautifyful and trechyrous, that's what it was. A siren song." Since then, many more have heard the song of the Lorelei, and many more ships have gone down at this bend in the Rhine. And the legend of the Lorelei was born."_

We sat on the boat, enthralled by the guide's expressive narration of this (obviously hopelessly - but tastefully -embellished) story. Needless to say, we left a good tip for him. "_Danke schön, mädchen,_" he said, as he tipped us a smile and a wink. I grabbed Rory's hand as we stepped off the boat.

"I never knew we were such excitingly-named people! Spurned by an unfaithful lover, suicide by drowning, turning into a siren and luring drunk sailors to their deaths... who knew?"

Rory rolled her eyes. "Mom, if you had listened when I was doing that project..."

I turned her head, and watched as the Rhine churned and spat around the anchored boat. "Well, if you recall, I was having exams at that time, Miss Know-It-All. Getting that degree was hard work!"

Rory gave me a hug. "I'm proud of you, mom. You really did it. And now you're here!"

I smile. A soft smile which remembers her as a little bundle of pink cloth. "Yes, I'm here. WE'RE here. Together." I turn to look upwards. "Staring at a rock with a statue on it."

"Hey, it has a great story to go with it, and have some respect for... us?" Bursting out into giggles, we walked towards our charming little inn.

-----

_I'm sort of half-describing my graduation trip through mainstream Europe in this fic, so I've actually been to St. Goar and seen the Lorelei statue for myself. It's really just a rock, but the enterprising townspeople have done up an interesting bronze (I think) statue of the Lorelei to set on the rock itself. There's a castle or two around too - Castle Rheinfels is one of the main ones. It's pretty cool. The town's a very picturesque one, with cuckoo clocks for sale everywhere. Oh, and Mondsee was really where the movie version of The Sound of Music's wedding was filmed. _

_As always, reviews appreciated._


	2. Peace of Mind

**Standard Disclaimer: **These characters belong to the WB & AS-P.  
**Dedication: **This is for **jeepgirl259**.  
**Spoilers/Timeline: **No spoilers, set in Season 5, after "So... good talk". Not episode-centric, just set after they break and make up.  
**A/N: **Do read and review. This was re-submitted after **eighty9octane** alerted me to the no-lyrics policy of this site. Personally, I think the warning goes out to all who just copy-and-paste an entire song with two lines of dialogue and a mise-en-scene explanation, like "they went dancing and this song went on", but well... Since this was a fic that was going to be based around the lyrics of the song, I don't see how I can continue in a coherent manner without violating copyright. I've always held that ten percent of the work can be used without permission (so ten percent per chapter was alright in my book), but I suppose it's better to be above-board in ambiguous cases. Apologies to all; this was going to be my first serious multi-partner. (Who said that copyright isn't killing creativity?)

**Mermaids Cry Too  
Chapter 2: Peace of mind**

I had heard of her before she came in that first day. Hey, we officially met eight years ago, but as long as you were within the vicinity of Patty's studio, you were bound to know when news breaks in Star's Hollow.

I was about 18 at the time, just as things were going belly-up at home. I'd try to be at the store for my dad, but sometimes, just sometimes, when his sadness got too heavy for me to handle, I'd take a walk to the playground across the road, beside Miss Patty's studio, where she would hold impromptu court with anyone interested passing by. And that was when I first heard.

"... so I take some time to go up to the inn, and there she is, dressed in a uniform and all, pushing a chambermaid's cart to the storeroom."

I sat on one of the park benches, idly rolling my skateboard under the bench with my right foot. I tune out the conversation, and start to daydream about moving away from here. I knew I'd never leave Dad, but it was a nice daydream to visit with occasionally. A pity I didn't perk my ears up more. It's 1986, and I'm oblivious to the seismic shift that has occurred in the geography of my small life.

**. . .  
Now you wonder who is she  
. . .**

Small-town life is full of history. Not stupid stuff like what Taylor's museum tries to glorify - who in their right mind would want to listen to the story of the Jebediah family? No. Small-town life is full of your own history. People know you. They were there when you were born, took your first steps, cut your first tooth, TP-ed the gazebo, skateboarded through the town square. That kind of history. It's the kind of history that lets you reminisce happily when you're old and grey, thinking about "the good old days" when life was easier.

It's also the kind of history that allows an old family friend the right to request the repair services of a young man, and offer dinner in return for the favour.

"Ah, there you are. Your father said I might find you here."

I stood up, brushing my hands on my apron. "Yeah, he sent me here to straighten all the nails that were ever bent since the beginning of time, I think. And I'm sweating like a pig because ventilation in this storeroom's a real bitc...pain." Pushing my hair out of my eyes, I look at her. "Did you need something from back here?"

She looks over the rim of her glasses. "Not exactly. I need some help with something at the inn, and I was wondering if your father could take a look at it before I called in a hopelessly expensive repairman. Your father said he wasn't feeling up to it, and told me to come ask you instead. So here I am. Asking you." She smiles, a kindly smile that makes my heart ache for my mother.

"Sure, but what do I get out of it?" My tone is flippant, covering up for the sudden onslaught of emotions.

She raised one of her eyebrows. "What do you get out of it? My word, Luke, when did you get to be so cheeky?" And she reached forward to pinch my cheeks. Seeing the attack, I dodged quickly.

"MIA! You promised you wouldn't do that anymore!" She laughed, a tinkling sound that sounded dead in the still air of the storeroom.

"That I did, that I did. I'm sorry. Now would you get those tools and let's get going. I've got a dripping air-conditioner that I need you to look at, and I'm offering dinner in return. Is that a fair trade?" Without waiting for my answer, she called into the main hardware store: "William, I'm having Luke stay for dinner at the inn, okay?"

I smile, take off my apron, and look for my toolbox. Some things were inevitable.

We walked to the inn in companiable silence, each content to just enjoy the summer's day in quiet. As we entered the inn, to my surprise, we walked past the large air-con compressors, and towards the stables. We rounded a corner, and ended up at... the potting shed. Mia pointed out the single unit compressor to me.

"That one's been leaking for two weeks, and we can't seem to find out what's wrong with it. Normally when there's a leak, there's a problem with the filter, or there's a blockage in the water pipe. We've checked for both problems already, but it's still leaking." She bent and pulled out an algae-coated hose. "Of course, we might not have checked the pipe very thoroughly..."

I smiled a wry smile. "I'll get right on it."

She stood up and brushed herself off. "Good. Come in when you're finished, and we'll have dinner." As she turned to leave, I asked, "Mia? Why do you need me to fix this anyway? Isn't this just full of pots and gardening stuff? Why'd you need to air-condition the place?"

She turned back. "Because there are people staying in there now, and I don't want them to suffocate to death in the summer heat." Making another smart turn of the heel, she left. I thought no more about it, and got to work on cleaning the blockage out of the pipe. Dinner was scrumptious.

**. . .  
Hopes destroyed, she wanted to find certain death, peace of mind  
. . .**

I tell her that all these near-encounters with her before we actually meet - they were like Peter Parker and Mary-Jane Watson in the original Spider-Man comics: Aunt May keeps wanting to set him up with her, but until the actual first date, we never see Mary-Jane because she's always drawn with a huge flower display hanging just over her face, or her profile is being blocked by another person.

"So what you're saying is that you're really a super-hero in disguise?" she teased.

"No, I'm just saying that you're my Mary-Jane."

"And I have the same awful family background to prove it, too."

"Mary-Jane didn't run away from her family with a baby in tow."

"Well... you know that story. It was either leave them and stay sane, or stay there and commit suicide, giving Rory the perfect excuse to go on Oprah and conjure up my spirit with an ouiji board just to say that her life was my fault."

"Rory on Oprah. That's a scary thought."

"You think that's freakier than my spirit being conjured up?"

I kissed the side of her forehead. "Well, I'm glad you're here now."

She smiled and snuggled closer to me on the sofa. "I'm glad I am too."


	3. Seagulls Fly, Tears Don't Dry

**Standard Disclaimer:** These characters belong to the WB & AS-P.  
**Dedication:** This is for anyone from NY.  
**Spoilers/Timeline: **No spoilers, set in Season 6, sometime after "Always a Godmother, Never a God".  
**A/N: **Do read and review. I'm revisiting what constitutes the "no lyrics" rule. I'm not so sure that this is considered songfic. It takes its _inspiration_ from a song, but nobody's singing it to someone else, nor is anyone listening to it on the radio. Not all the lyrics are used, and only a few lines of the song are used in any one chapter. This is not songfic. This is song-inspired fic. And I've never been to New York (I've only been to the US once in my life, and not to NY), so please allow me poetic license to 'copter 'round the Statue.

**Mermaids Cry Too  
****Chapter 3: Seagulls Fly, Tears Don't Dry**

Wow. I've never circled the Statue of Liberty in a helicopter before. It's so _'Day After Tomorrow'_, when you look at the hand holding the lamp. Or _'X-Men'_, where Rogue gets her funky hair.

That thought makes me pause. Mom and I wanted to dye our hair white after watching that scene. We went to Doose's to get hair dye, but wound up in yet another argument with Taylor about why Stars Hollow didn't need white hair dye because it had an aging population, and who wanted white hair anyway?

"We do, Taylor! It's all cool and funky now, didn't you see _'X-Men'_? Let me tell you, white hair dye is hot, hot, hot, and it'll be selling like hot cakes once autumn sets in, because that's when the DVD sales start, and soon, all the young kids will want white hair dye, and they'll come here, and when they realise that you don't have white hair dye, they'll have to go online to buy it, where they'll meet a paedophile and get robbed and raped and murdered, and their parents will all be like, 'It's all your fault Taylor', all because you wouldn't sell white hair dye!"

"Don't be silly, Lorelai," Taylor was nonplussed. "As I already told you, Stars Hollow has an aging population, and the chances of children coming into this store are very slim, not to mention children coming in here wanting hair dye, and white hair dye at that."

His perfectly reasonable tone irritated mom so much that she just left, conceding victory to one Mr Taylor Doose.

"Hey Ace, whatcha thinking about?"

I turn to Logan.

"Nothing. I just never saw the Statue of Liberty from this angle before." I smile at him, my sweet Logan. My first casual-turned-serious relationship. My anchor now that my world is adrift.

He smiles at me trying to keep the hair out of my mouth. I take out my digital camera to snap a couple of shots for my weblog, and maybe for the paper…oh.

A wave of melancholy suddenly sweeps over me, and I start to tear. Logan has turned to look at the vista of the Atlantic spread forth before us, and I quickly use my sleeve to blot my eyes before I ruin my mascara and my façade.

**. . .  
those tears won't dry  
. . .**

Birds circle around the Statue, just as we do. We've been up in the air for about an hour now, and the pilot tells Logan that we'll have to turn back to the airport in about two minutes. He looks at me, unasked question in his eyes, and I nod my head.

"Well then, take her home, captain" he tells the pilot.

We bank a sharp left to exit the orbit we set for ourselves. I lean into the curve, enjoying the salty tang on my lips as I lick them. All of a sudden, the helicopter lurches, as if it hit a speed bump – at two hundred feet?

"Sorry 'bout that, folks. Gull."

"What?" I thought I misheard.

"Gull. Seagull. We hit one. That's why the bump in the road."

"Oh." Bump in the road. I know something about that.

Taking a deep breath, I willed myself not to think about things, and just…breathe in and breathe out. Live in the here and now, Rory. Here and now, that's all that matters. You'll figure it out later. For now, there's just this… and Logan.

I reach out to take his hand, and he turns to me, and smiles. He uses the other hand to take the camera from me, and proceeds to take a picture of me, wild hair and all. Takes two, in fact. Then squashes our head together to take a self-portrait of us both, which will wind up looking horrendous because our faces will take up the whole screen, and pores and zits can be seen in living colour.

"I know what you're thinking, Ace, and we'll Photoshop them before we let Finn anywhere near these pictures. God only knows what he'll do to a good photo. Probably blow them up and buy a billboard off a highway somewhere to stick them up."

I smile, and turn to him. He turns to me, hand still outstretched with the camera. We lean in for the kiss, and I almost don't notice when the flash goes off.

**. . .  
seagulls fly  
. . .**

We eat at the airport, sushi. It's quiet in the pilot's lounge, and I can only assume that Logan gets to be there because he's also a pilot, with a license and everything.

'Wow,' I think. 'That could be a good backup plan in case his family fortune goes bust. Become a pilot and fly people around.' I sneak a look at him in between handrolls. He's picking at his soft-shelled crab, restless. I pick up my chopsticks and offer a colourful roll to him.

"California maki for your thoughts?"

He picks some more at the crab. Sighs.

"Nothing, Ace. Don't wanna spoil the weekend."

"You can talk about it, you know," I tell him.

"Talk about what? What's there to talk about? There's nothing to talk about. I'm just a Huntzberger, that's all there is to it."

"But you're good at writing, what's the problem with going into the family business?" I finally voice out the thing which has been puzzling me since he started funking out about it.

He tilted his head and looked at me. Scratches his nose as he wrinkles it. "It's not just writing, Rory, it's… everything. The executive office. The cute secretary with the short skirt. But don't worry," he says quickly, "she's already happily married with two kids." I stick out my tongue at him. "It's not just the business," he repeats. "It's… the beginning of the end. The admission that I am a Huntzberger."

"But you are a Huntzberger."

"Yes, but the rest, the rest! The rest of the … the… _stuff_ that _goes_ with being a Huntzberger! The family obligations! The dinners, the parties, the luncheons, the gatherings, the subtle power plays! I don't want to do that!" He's drunk a bottle of Kirin sake already, which is pretty strong stuff, even for him. Logan's a happy drunk, most of the time, but I can tell this wasn't going to be one of the times. This was going to be one of those times where he would rant.

'Very rare for him to lose control, so be lucky he trusts you enough to lose it in front of you,' a part of my mind thinks detachedly.

"You're lucky you don't have any obligations to your family. There's no obligation to _'Be a Gilmore,'_ no stress in knowing that you'll have to pay for all the so-called privileges that you've received, one way or another," he continues.

"That's not true, Logan," I demur, but he presses his point relentlessly.

"You don't. You really don't. I might be in college, but I know I have to finish it by the end of this year, or I get all my bank accounts pulled from under me. I have to finish and get my ass in gear, and start shadowing my dad around work to 'pick up the ropes', he said. 'Pick up the ropes', yeah, right," he snorted. "To hang myself with, probably."

I can see that there's no reasoning with him tonight, and I let him continue on, tuning him out, and only occasionally making sympathetic noises when it seems appropriate.

I try not to think about his comment about my situation in life.

'Live for the here and now, Rory. Here and now. Don't think anymore. Don't think.' I think it to myself even as my mind takes on a will of its own.

Don't think, Rory. Don't think about how you're a candidate to be a college dropout. Don't think about how you left your mom. Don't think about how great it was to be writing for the Yale paper. Don't think about how mom got engaged to Luke without telling you. Don't think. Just… don't think.

Here and now, Rory. Here and now.


	4. Don't You Cry

**Standard Disclaimer:** These characters belong to the WB & AS-P.  
**Dedication:** This is for any Egyptians who might be reading. I went on a cruise down the Nile in May 2005 - I strongly recommend going there to everyone. The Nile is a magical place.  
**Spoilers/Timeline: **No spoilers, set in Season 6  
**A/N: **Do read and review.

**Mermaids Cry Too  
****Chapter 4: Don't You Cry **

"Hey, pass the chips."

"Get them yourself; they're just on the table, right beside your feet, which, by the way, are unhygienically placed on the coffee table."

"Yeah, but then I'd have to do a sort of sit-up to get there, and as a Gilmore, just the thought of that much exercise fulfils my stomach crunch quota for the next decade."

"You do realise that I'm in the kitchen."

"Yeah."

"Far, far away from the chips."

"Yeah."

"Lorelai..." I grumble under my breath as I stride into the living room, grab the bowl of chips from the table, and dump the bowl in Lorelai's lap.

"I walked ten steps to move a bowl 30 inches." I raise my eyebrows at her, taking in her boneless posture on the sofa. 'She's gonna need a backrub later if she keeps stressing her lower back like that,' I think to myself.

"Yes, but you love exercise, right?" She looked up from the tv, in time to see the tail-end of the look. I just fold my arms and continue to glare at her.

"Do you know how energy-inefficient you've just made me?"

"Why don't you eat some chips, I hear they've pack a punch, energy-wise." Lorelai offers up the bowl to me, jiggling it a little. I sigh into the rustling chips, and she lowers her arm and pouted a little.

"Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. No more energy-inefficient Luke Danes. I got it." She returned her gaze to the tv, which was tuned to some talk-show or other. 'Probably Larry King or David Letterman or Leno or something,' I think, and grimace at the fact that I'd actually been able, without much effort, to run through the names of these talk-show hosts without so much as a blink. 'If this isn't love,' I think wryly to myself, as I return to the kitchen.

I pick up my discarded paper, and continue reading the sports page, but I find that my mind can't stay on the numbers anymore. I sneak a peek at her. She's gazing into the idiot box intently, like it's got some sort of hold on her, which it probably does. I see her pick up the telephone, and stare at it. Put it down again.

She's been doing that a lot lately. She thinks I don't notice, but I do. The little things. _'God is in the details'_, Mia once told me, when a whole curtain rail fell down at the Independence Inn, along with about a pound of plaster, all because I didn't drill in the final screw (I went for lunch.) I was so apologetic that I think I grovelled just to re-do the entire thing, which was the only thing that I could have done in penance anyway.

She's all happy and smiling, sunshine and roses all day. She laughs and dances with me, twirling like Meg Ryan and her mother in _'You've Got Mail'_; she mocks the movies we rent and throws popcorn at the TV, which she insists that I clean up afterwards; she eats ice-cream out of the tub as she reads the paper.

Of course she's dying. I know she is. Her baby's lost to her.

**. . .  
sweet Lorelei  
. . .**

_"Luke,"_ she turned to me the other night. I look over to her, glass poised halfway between the counter top and my lips. _"I don't want to set a date for the wedding until things are right with Rory."_

Of course you don't. And I don't want to either. How can we get married if Rory's not your bridesmaid?

I don't know what's been going on in that beautiful head of yours, but I do know this: as brusque as I might be sometimes, I get the important things.

**. . .  
don't you cry  
. . .**

I stare, seeing but unseeing, at the tv. I hope Luke doesn't notice. I'm trying not to notice. How the bottom just dropped out of my world. Again. I never through that it could happen twice in anyone's life, but no, it odds are that it had to happen to me. Again.

Is this how my parents felt when I left? I would hate to imagine that I can now empathise with them. A daughter lost to the world. How ironic. They lost me to the banalities of Metallica and Madonna, and I lost her to the niceties of the Lourve and the DAR.

I haven't cried about this. I won't. There are few things in life I'm sure of – death, taxes, and the fact that my daughter will get her education, come hell or high water.

Looks like hell's here, but I'm not letting the high waters in.


End file.
